Archive for August, 2008

Oh what a difference a couple of rows back make.

On my flight down to Atlanta, I sat in my coach seat, cramped up to a window surrounded by screaming babies (seriously I think the baby to adult ratio on this flight was like 8 to 1. I don’t know how it’s possible either; just trust me). A two-hour flight took 5 hours. My trip went something like this:

We taxi around for an hour waiting in a line of 15 planes to take off. We’re last. We wait with the engine idling for so long that we have to go back to the station to get more fuel before take-off. We taxi again…for the same amount of time. Pilot says eff it this time and just takes off. The plane goes about one mile per hour, most likely due to lack of fuel. I doze off for ten minutes (within which the snacks and drinks are offered. I completely miss it). Babies are screaming. I don’t mind so much; babies cry, it’s what they do. I cannot however tolerate the 10-year-old brat next to me who is holding down one nostril while forcibly blowing whatever is in the other, out. Onto her shirt, onto the seat and she turns to try it out on me. I quickly throw her the I’m-not-your-mama-but-I-will-beat-you-like-a-gotdam-runaway-slave- if-you-even-think-about-thinking-about-it look. A silent war ensues between us for the next three hours of the “two-hour” flight. The crowning moment for the little shit is her staring and smiling at me while she farts, loudly. She knows she’s won. I can’t escape her wrath crammed in this corner. I have half a mind to return the favor as I pass in front of her and run to the bathroom to vomit from the smell, but I have way too much home-training for that. Plus I couldn’t get one out… Oh please you hypocrites stop acting like you don’t fart. I get back to my seat to find the child’s mother trying to reason with and bribe her to stop acting up. She looks tired and over it. I kindly ask her permission to assist in the matter. Her pleading response: PLEASE. I sit back in my window seat and lean over to the middle seat where the ten-year-old is looking confused at the exchange that just took place. I lean in real close, right up to the midget’s ear. Unfortunately, with everything that I want to say, all the names and choice French words and stories to scare the shit out of this little mongoose that I have in my mind, what comes out is completely random. I hiss in Oprah’s Celie voice: Until you do right by me, everything you even think about gonna fail! (I think I dreamed about The Color Purple during that 10 minute nap). Luckily, the fact that the little girl has absolutely no clue what the hell I am talking about (and the fact that I do a pretty good Celie impression) makes it that much scarier in her mind. She looks at me, shaken and bewildered, inches over to her mother and sits frozen in her seat for the rest of the flight. We hit turbulence, land a bumpy landing and are greeted by tumultuous downpour in ATL.

On my way back to New York, I settled into my cushy business class seat and stretched my legs peering out the window (that as I think back on it was quite larger than the coach one) surrounded by business people tying up some last minute business on their cell phones before departure. A two-hour flight took one hour and forty-five minutes. My trip went something like this:

Before I even settle in fully, a kind receptionist asks me if I’d like anything to drink. “What do you have?” I ask, just for shits and giggles. She says in a jovial and way too excited voice “We have anything you want! Soda, water, fresh juice (my eyebrow goes up at that one), tea, coffee, alcohol! Anything your heart desires!” Really? Like are you serious? When I ask this question in coach I get the stank can’t-you-see-the-damn-cart look. I ask for apple juice and she comes back promptly with the juice and a basket o’ treats. It was like my own personal vending machine. I take two snacks and pull out some paperwork. I was in business class hellooooo. I had to look busy with business. The last person boards and we take off almost immediately. I do some scheduling and budget calculations. Finish that and pull out my Barack Obama issue of TIME magazine. I feel at peace. Cozy yet energized. My brain mulls over my next career moves and my travel plans. I take out my iPod when permitted and gaze out the big window. I listen to Raheem DeVaughn singing “You” and peer down at the city lights. They look magical. Like abstract art installations. The cars are like ants, I spot one and my eyes grab the others until the whole scenic view comes to life like one big glittery ant farm. I doze off and dream about traveling with the Obama family. (I become their surrogate daughter.) I’m awoken by the captain almost whispering over the loud speaker. He’s talking as if to a child in the voice that only pilots have mastered. “Good evening ladies and gentleman we are approximately eight minutes out of LaGuardia, we want to take this time to thank you for choosing to fly with us. A special thanks to our business class passengers…” I rub the sleep from my eyes. We land like a feather. 75 degrees and cool in NYC.

Today’s lesson peppermints: Coach is for suckas.

lundi heureux,

cyu